Genovese, the question being put to him,
talked fast, like all men who can intoxicate themselves by the
ebullition of ideas suggested to them by a passion.
"Yes, signori, I love her, I worship her with a frenzy of which I
never believed myself capable, now that I am tired of women. Women
play the mischief with art. Pleasure and work cannot be carried on
together. Clara fancies that I was jealous of her success, that I
wanted to hinder her triumph at Venice; but I was clapping in the
side-scenes, and shouted _Diva_ louder than any one in the house."
"But even that," said Cataneo, joining them, "does not explain why,
from being a divine singer, you should have become one of the most
execrable performers who ever piped air through his larynx, giving
none of the charm even which enchants and bewitches us."
"I!" said the singer. "I a bad singer! I who am the equal of the
greatest performers!"
By this time, the doctor and Vendramin, Capraja, Cataneo, and Genovese
had made their way to the piazzetta. It was midnight. The glittering
bay, outlined by the churches of San Giorgio and San Paulo at the end
of the Giudecca, and the beginning of the Grand Canal, that opens so
mysteriously under the _Dogana_ and the church of Santa Maria della
Salute, lay glorious and still.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145